


Shadow Moon

by selynne



Category: The Secret of the Unicorn Queen - Josepha Sherman
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Eventual Romance, F/M, Original Character(s), Originally Posted Elsewhere, Romance, Unofficial Sequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2007-04-20
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 02:02:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13448175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selynne/pseuds/selynne
Summary: Written years ago and still unfinished (sorry), this was my attempt at an unofficial sequel to book six in the original series, "Moonspell."





	1. Prologue

It was her mother who first noticed the scar.

They'd spent all day up in the attic, going through the last of her father's things and organizing it all into a pile of boxes that had grown to depressingly epic proportions. It had taken the two of them more than a year to work up the courage to do this, but there was no sense of relief now as they finished the job. Looking at the silent, slightly bulging squares of cardboard sitting there in the dust only made her want to cry again.

But she didn't.

Instead she put an arm around her mother's shoulders and leaned tiredly against her, the two of them collapsed on the ragged old couch that had been banished to the attic for as long as she could remember. Another of her father's possessions, she knew, from before her parents' marriage.

“I knew this would be hard,” her mother sighed, staring dully at the boxes. “I just ... it still seems so wrong to box it all up and give it away...”

Sheila nodded. “I know.” She  _ hated _ the idea, in fact, but there was nothing else to be done. The “to keep” pile was a good deal smaller than the stack of “to donate” boxes, but they'd gone through everything twice now, and as much as it hurt to let go of ANY of her dad's old things, Sheila only had so much room left in her dorm, and hanging onto a collection of outdated computer programming books or a box full of crusty old fishing lures was not going to bring him back to her.

Still, she was tempted to suggest that they just leave everything boxed up for awhile and worry about the actual “giving away” part later. That was how they'd done everything up till now, anyway: in stages. It had been too difficult to sort, pack, and get rid of everything all at once, so they'd started with just the sorting, seven or eight months back. Once that was finished, they'd left everything alone for a while, venturing up into the attic only when it was absolutely necessary. Then, after a few  _ more _ months had passed, they'd forced themselves to start the packing itself.

It had taken awhile to gather enough boxes, and of course the actual packing process was slow, first because it was simply so painful and then later because they both kept getting distracted by what they were packing. Sheila lost count of how many times she'd stopped to ask her mother about this item or that, picking the woman's brains for any memories about her father that she hadn't yet been privy to.

The wound of loss had become an old ache, one that settled deep in her chest and festered unendingly. There were times when she could almost forget, when she could lose herself in school or in work, and her life would feel like it did before. But then she would come home and see her mother's face, or sit in front of a pile of boxes that contained the sum total of her father's life ... and she would realize for the hundredth time that nothing was ever going to be the same again.

“Why don't we just leave it like this for awhile?” she heard herself suggest. “There's no hurry. Gerry said they can take the donations any time we want to bring them down, and we can't hold a garage sale in this weather anyway.” She motioned towards the roof where rain could still be heard spattering against the shingles. It filled the room with a continuous thrumming sound that they'd both learned to ignore hours ago.

Catherine McCarthy said nothing, still staring at the boxes, and after a long moment Sheila simply squeezed her shoulder. She'd learned over time that when her mother got quiet like this, it was best to simply wait her out. Trying to fill up the emptiness with words only made things worse. Besides, it had been more than a year now since her father's death, and she sometimes felt as if there was nothing left to be said.

They lapsed into a kind of somnambulant silence, leaning against each other for support and watching the dust as it settled around them. Sheila closed her eyes, realizing with some surprise that she could easily fall asleep here, and wondered why she had such a hard time doing so in her own bed.

When Catherine spoke again, finally, after countless minutes had passed, Sheila thought for a moment that she had dreamt the words.

“I was so lucky.”  The older woman's voice was quiet, wistful almost, a tone that Sheila rarely heard from her anymore. Her eyes snapped open at the sound of it. She wanted to look at her mother's face, but found herself afraid to do so. 

“When I first met your father... I had no idea.”

There was another span of silence. “No idea of what?” Sheila finally ventured, in nearly a whisper.

Catherine shifted beside her, straightening just enough to wrap an arm around her daughter's shoulders. “That he was the one.” There was a smile in her voice and Sheila finally indulged the urge to look up at her. She was smiling, sadly, and gave her daughter a squeeze. “I wouldn't change a day of it, despite all of this.” As she looked over at the boxes again, however, her expression faltered a bit. She took a deep, strengthening breath. “And you're probably right. We might as well leave this alone until I get back from Aunt Jane's.”

Sheila nodded, relieved. Her mother was flying out in three days to visit her sister in Oregon, and wouldn't be back again for nearly two weeks. It was a long overdue trip that Sheila had been encouraging her to take for months. She desperately hoped that her aunt would be more of a comfort to her mother than she herself seemed to be.

“You're  _ sure _ you don't mind me leaving?”

Sheila gave her a somewhat cramped version of a hug. “Of course not. I'll be fine. I'll be at school most of the time anyway, or work.”

Catherine frowned a little. “I'm not the only one here who could use a break.” She brushed back a strand of her daughter's long auburn hair, studying her face. “I wish you'd come with me.”

Sheila smiled, despite herself. “I'm  _ fine _ ,” she insisted. “I'm just tired. Midterms and work and everything, it's just...” She shrugged. “I'll be fine.”

Her mother hardly looked convinced, but they'd been having this conversation for weeks and Sheila knew that her  _ mother _ knew that she wasn't likely to change her mind. In truth, if Sheila had really wanted to, she could have taken some time off and flown up to her aunt's after the semester was over. She worked at a stable, after all, not an accounting firm. But she'd only seen her Aunt Jane three or four times in her entire life, the most recent being at her father's funeral, and she wasn't quite ready to revisit that memory just yet.

Catherine fretted with her hair a bit more and then sighed, giving her daughter a tired, resigned look. “All right. But if you get any more headaches like that last one, I want you to call me. And if you can't get through, call Myra at the hospital. She'll come right over and get you.”

Sheila sighed, leaning her head back against the couch. “Mom, I do not need to go to the hospital.”

Her mother eyed her skeptically. ”I should have taken you the last time. You nearly passed out.”

“I didn't pass out, I just ... got a little lightheaded, is all.”

“Sheila.” The stern tone in her mother's voice was familiar and not to be denied, even now. She looked over at her reluctantly. “You promise me. If that happens again, you'll call someone. I'm not leaving this house until you promise.”

Sheila closed her eyes again, resisting the urge to rub at them. “I promise,” she said, although she knew she'd never call. They were just headaches, after all, nothing that a little rest and several hundred milligrams of Ibuprofen couldn't cure. The pain had gotten worse lately, that was true, but it hadn't helped that she wasn't getting enough sleep at night and sometimes forgot to eat for half a day, details that her mother was unaware of. It was stress, she knew, the impact of all that had happened in the past few years. The last thing she needed was one of her mother's friends from work showing up.

“All right.” Catherine sounded tired still, but satisfied with Sheila's answer. “Good.” She put a hand on Sheila's knee and pushed herself up off the couch with a whoosh of air, bringing another smile to her daughter's face. Then she began shuffling around the attic, gathering up the packing tape, scissors and other things they'd brought up with them this morning. “How about some dinner, then?” She paused mid-motion. “You're not going back to school tonight, are you?”

Sheila sighed again and rubbed at her eyes. “I don't know,” she admitted reluctantly. “I probably should. I have that paper to finish and I didn't bring anything with me -”

“Sheila.” Catherine grabbed at her right arm suddenly, interrupting her, and Sheila opened her eyes.

“What?”

Her mother was frowning. “What happened to your arm?”

Sheila looked down at herself, confused. She'd worn a long-sleeved sweater that morning in the hopes of warding off the damp, muggy cold of the attic during winter. Somehow, her right sleeve had gotten pushed up during their discussion on the couch, exposing the pale skin on the underside of her arm. Where she now saw, plain as day, four long, angry-looking red welts that had most definitely not been there this morning.

Welts that looked almost claw-like, and barely healed.  Welts that she'd seen before.

A jolt of shock ripped through her. If she hadn't already been sitting down, she might have fallen over.

Some inkling of what she was feeling must have shown on her face, because she became aware, in a distant sort of way, of sudden clattering sounds as her mother set her armful of packing supplies back down on the floor. “Sheila?” One hand was instantly pressed to her forehead, the other to her back. “Are you all right? How did you get those?”

Sheila opened her mouth, but no sound emerged. She wasn't entirely certain that she was still breathing. Besides, there was no way to answer that question honestly, and her mind was spinning far too quickly for her to formulate a convincing lie. Oh, she knew  _ exactly _ how she'd gotten those marks. Where and when and even why. She would remember every detail until the day she died.

And there was no possible way she could tell her mother.

“I...” her voice faltered. All she could do was stare at her arm in horror and disbelief. This wasn't possible. This couldn't be happening. More than six  _ years _ had gone by ...

Catherine was still waiting, watching her with the kind of concern that usually resulted in the application of thermometers and cold compresses. Sheila cleared her throat, trying to focus on the present. “I ... I think it was Will's cat...”

“Will's  _ cat _ ?” Her mother took her arm again, turning it slightly for a better look as she examined the marks with a trained eye. “What kind of cat does he have? I thought they didn't allow pets in the dorm.”

Sheila stared at her, barely comprehending. “Um ... no, they don't. I meant ... Will's  _ mom's _ cat. The last time we went to visit, he just ... jumped up on me. I guess he didn't like me much.” Even as the words left her mouth she knew how insane they sounded.

Her mother looked at her in clear disbelief. “Does his mother keep a lion in the house?” she asked, only half-joking. “Look at the size of these -”

Sheila pulled her arm away a bit more forcefully than she intended, heart pounding, and pushed herself up off the couch. “It was a big cat,” she insisted, giving her mother a tremulous smile. “Huge.” She pushed her sleeve back down and tried to keep her hands from trembling. “I'd forgotten all about that, actually.”

Her mother eyed her for a moment longer before apparently deciding to accept this explanation. Shaking her head, she gathered her packing materials back up in one arm and held out the other, letting her daughter pull her to her feet.

“Well.” She sighed and slung her arm across Sheila's shoulders again, giving her a quick squeeze as they walked together towards the door. “I guess it's good that the two of you broke up, then. No more monster cats to worry about.”

Sheila forced a smile. Her mother rarely mentioned Will anymore, but she'd been pretty obviously disappointed when he and Sheila had broken up. Probably she thought that Sheila's odd reaction to the marks had something to do with him, and her joke was an attempt to soften the blow.

If only she knew how far away from reality that assumption was.

Sheila paused by the door, one hand on the light switch, and waited as Catherine started down the slightly narrow stairs to the second floor of the house. Her heart pounded frantically as she stood there, her thoughts scattered a thousand miles away from anything even remotely as mundane as an ex-boyfriend. There was a sudden flash of pain in her left hand and she looked down - with no small amount of fear - to discover that she was gripping the door frame so tightly that her knuckles were turning white. She yanked her hand away, releasing a shaky breath as she tried to calm herself down.

It couldn't be, she told herself.  It  _ couldn't _ be.

She'd gotten those welts almost seven years ago, in another time and place, on a completely different world. They'd nearly killed her then. They'd been  _ designed _ to kill her...

Her mother called to her from somewhere downstairs. Snapping out of her fugue, Sheila switched off the attic light with trembling fingers, enveloping herself in a gray, murky darkness that was accompanied only by the frenetic sound of rain tapping against the windows and exaggerated, watery shadows dripping slowly down the wall.

Shivering, she turned and very nearly fled down the stairs.


	2. The Scientist

Sheila hadn't realized how long it had been since she'd last visited Dr. Reit until she found herself standing on his doorstep nearly a week later.

It was still pouring outside, much to her dismay, and it took a while to navigate a safe path across the porch. The old wooden floorboards were creaky and sagging with rainwater, and she was half afraid that the roof might come down on top of her in a gust of violent wind. The screen door was unlatched and swung erratically on it's hinges, nearly whacking her twice in the face before she had the presence of mind to grab the handle. The metal felt cold and bruised in her hand and Sheila frowned as she stood there, blinking in the rain.

While it was true that Dr. Reit had never been much of a home decorator, she'd never seen his old Victorian in such a state before. The porch, the front yard - it all looked even more wild and unkempt than she remembered, and a familiar wave of guilt washed over her. She really should have thought to check in on him before now, especially considering the weather.

What had initially looked like a simple two or three-day storm had grown into an angry week-long deluge that showed no sign of breaking up anytime soon. Between the flooding, road closures, mud slides and electrical outages, it seemed as if the entire state was drowning. Luckily, her mother's flight to Oregon a few days ago had gone smoothly and she was currently safe - if not entirely dry - at her sister's home in Portland. It'd been close, though. All flights had been canceled the very next day because of gale-force winds, and Sheila hadn't been very comfortable with the idea of her mother traveling in this kind of weather to begin with.

It was more than the weather, though, that made her so nervous. She'd been through a violent storm of this sort only once before in her entire life, and it had not been of this world. The fact that it seemed to coincide with the surprise reappearance of her scar certainly hadn't escaped her attention either. Still, the Earth-bound, rational side of her personality argued that this was all simply a bizarre coincidence that had nothing to do with the past and would probably eventually be explained away in a perfectly logical manner.

The problem was that the rest of her simply knew better.

Sheila turned and rang the doorbell, anxious to escape the elements and her own worrisome thoughts. There was no response, and after a moment she rang again, this time leaning in closer to hear. It was hard to make anything out over the rising cacophony of wind and rainfall, but it didn't sound to her as if the bell was working. Not entirely surprised by this, she propped the tattered screen open with her shoulder and knocked directly on the heavy wooden door.

“Dr. Reit?”

It occurred to her then that he might not even be home. She hadn't noticed his car outside, and it had been ages since they'd spoken to one another. Not since her father's funeral, she realized, and even _before_ then her visits with the elderly scientist had grown few and far between. Despite her busy schedule and the general craziness of her life, she knew that this was mostly her own fault. The simple truth was that his presence brought back too many memories, too many emotions. Too many reminders of other things lost.

“Dr. Reit?” Sheila knocked again, harder this time. “Anyone home?” Her voice was eaten up by the wind, but she could still hear the note of desperation in it. She tried not to imagine what her old friend would think of her when she explained why she'd finally come to see him again. Guilt warred with a growing sense of anxiety as she tried without much success to peer through a small side window, searching for any sign of movement within.

She _had_ to find him. There was literally no one else in the world she could talk to.

Sheila rang the bell once more. Her skin prickled in a sudden gust of cold wind, and she rubbed absently at her arms through her jacket. She noted - for the fortieth time - that there was still no pain in her right arm, where the scar was. There was no sensation at all, in fact, and there never had been. She'd spent hours examining the marks that first night, and had felt nothing other than the slightly raised skin of the scar itself. What was more, she had yet to get sick, pass out, or hallucinate. None of the awful things that had happened to her the first time around had happened again.

And yet.

And yet, and yet, and yet...

“Sheila?”

She nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of her own name, mostly because it had been shouted about three inches from her ear. She turned and almost collided with a tall man wearing a long raincoat and gaping black galoshes. He was squinting at her in the wind, rainwater dotting his bushy white eyebrows.

“Dr. Reit?”

Despite his wet and bundled state, she still caught the flash of complete surprise that crossed the man's face as he got a better look at her, followed up with a wide smile. “I thought I was imagining things,” he told her breathlessly. “What on Earth are you doing out here?”

Sheila opened her mouth to reply, but before she could utter a sound he had taken her by the elbow. “Never mind.” He pulled her away from the front door, his breath hanging in the air like a white cloud. “Let's get back inside before we both drown!”

She found herself envying Dr. Reit's slicker as they stepped off the porch, skirting the soggy crab grass and growing puddles of mud that currently made up his front yard. Her only umbrella had collapsed in on itself just this morning and she had no choice but to rely on her already-soggy jacket for protection. As she followed Dr. Reit around to the back of the house she tried to stay under the wide hanging eaves and avoid the rain, but it didn't seem to help much.

The windows along the back porch were glowing with light, a marked difference from the front of the house, and Sheila realized that he must have been working on something in the laboratory. She wondered distractedly how he'd even known that she was there.

Only a few steps ahead, Dr. Reit reached the back door first and held it open for her, blinking owlishly in the rain. Sheila flashed him a quick, grateful smile and hurried inside, relieved beyond words to escape the watery onslaught. She'd never been particularly bothered by storms before, but this was a different thing.

"Amazing, isn't it?" He followed her through the door, peeling off his raincoat with no small amount of distraction.

"And weird," Sheila added. "I can't remember the last time we had a storm like this.”

Dr. Reit made an unintelligible sound of agreement as he hustled past her, tossing his wet things in the general direction of an old coat rack and missing entirely. Underneath the rain gear Sheila saw that he was wearing his usual long white lab coat and dark trousers, his hair the same haphazard mess that she remembered.

She watched curiously as he made his way over to small table across the room, galoshes squeaking in protest as he hurried across the linoleum. For a moment he was silent, bent urgently over some contraption she couldn't quite make out and tinkering with what looked like a screwdriver and a portable drill. There was a tiny glowing screen off to one side that seemed to be ... _flipping_ somehow, reminding her of the way computer monitors looked when seen on television, kind of a rolling blink.

Well, she thought, he certainly _looks_ all right. There was far more white in his hair than gray these days and he carried a few extra lines on his face, but other than that he seemed exactly the same.

“What are you working on?” she asked, gathering up his coat and hanging it on the rack. She'd been asking him that question for years and it seemed an easier way to start a conversation than to come right out with everything else. Peeling off her own jacket and hanging it up next to his, Sheila grimaced a little at the feel of her long hair as it clung wetly to her back and face. Raking her fingers through it, she gathered it back in one hand and tried to squeeze some of the water out.

"It's a kind of weather machine, actually." He was still fiddling with the thing, only half-aware, it seemed, that Sheila had even spoken. “In theory, it's supposed to predict just this sort of occurrence. My results had been quite promising up until now, but this storm..." His voice trailed off as he made another adjustment of some sort, then straightened and stuffed his hands into his pockets, frowning. “It's skewed all of my calculations. That's why I was heading outside to begin with, you see. I have a receiver hooked up on the porch that isn't working correctly and my front door is still stuck -” As if newly reminded of her presence, the old scientist gave her another smile, visibly dismissing all thought of his problematic weather machine from his mind, and turned to face her fully. “And it's wonderful to see you again, Sheila. It's been far too long.”

Fresh guilt stabbed at her. “I know. I'm sorry. I just - ”

Dr. Reit waved away her explanations. “No need to apologize. I remember how busy college life can be.”

Sheila bit her lip. That was not the reason so much time had passed between visits, and she was sure that he knew that.

Dragging two chairs together from somewhere nearby, Dr. Reit dusted off the seats and motioned her towards one, sitting himself down in the other. “So. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Sheila sighed and sat down across from him, suddenly finding herself at a loss for words. It felt almost surreal, after all of the time that had passed and everything that had happened in between, to be sitting here again, in this room with this man, as if nothing really had changed. In a way, it seemed as if nothing had.

The vaguely organized chaos that had always been the hallmark of Dr. Reit's laboratory had only grown since her last visit. Petri dishes, yellowed manuals, books of all shapes and sizes, stacks of scribbled note pads, test tubes, calculators, schematics to unidentifiable contraptions, random pieces of machinery and a host of other objects packed the room, spilled onto the floor and covered just about every available table and work surface in the area. There was even a worn-looking computer nestled off to one side, sagging slightly under the heavy load of two thick astronomy books that had been stacked crookedly atop the monitor. Sheila recognized the machine as one that her father had given Dr. Reit years ago, to help with his work. Privately she'd always suspected that he had ended up salvaging it for parts instead.

One corner of the lab was conspicuously empty, but that came as no surprise to her. It had been that way for years. She supposed it was only conspicuous to her now, anyway. Still, as always, her eyes couldn't help but stray to that spot.

It was kind of like a toothache, she ruminated. You knew it would hurt, but you couldn't help but prod at the pain anyway.

Dr. Reit must have noticed her expression, and the general direction of her gaze. He folded his hands in his lap and cleared his throat, drawing her attention back to their conversation. “How have you been, my dear?”

Sheila smiled a little. “I think I should be asking _you_ that,” she admitted, but half of her statement was drowned out by a massive crack of thunder that erupted directly above them. The entire house seemed to tremble in response, and Sheila resisted the urge to clap her hands over her ears. The lights in the lab began to flicker, and there was a tense moment of silence as they waited to see if the power would go out.

“I believe this storm is getting stronger,” Dr. Reit observed, almost conversationally. As the thunder died away and - thankfully - the lights remained on, Sheila gripped her chair and noticed for the first time that the weather had worked its chaos _inside_ the lab as well.

There were several strategically placed buckets scattered about, catching rainwater as it leaked through the ceiling, while three already full to the brim had been lined up along a bare patch of wall, waiting to be emptied. A cold wind whistled through the cracked glass of one of the large windows, and a few sodden towels were bunched up in one corner.

Dr. Reit followed her gaze with his own, looking for the first time rather embarrassed by the state of his laboratory. “I suppose I haven't been as attentive a homeowner lately as I could be,” he admitted. “But this weather front has been a most timely distraction, at least in regards to my work.” Then he smiled again. “And I can assure you that I am quite well. A bit older, perhaps, but - “ he winked at her “ - time catches up to us all eventually.”

_How true,_ Sheila thought wryly. But there was something about the spark in her old friend's eye, his persistent good humor, that suddenly made her ridiculously sad. “I'm sorry it's been so long,” she said again, feeling the need to explain herself. “With everything that's happened, I just -”

Dr. Reit put a hand on her arm, forestalling the rest of her rambling attempt at an apology. “There's no need to feel badly about it, Sheila. It's been a terrible year, I know. And you're nearly a college graduate.” He regarded her with no small amount of pride. “You're an adult now, you have your own life to live. You certainly can't be spending all of your free time with me.”

“Dr. Reit...” Sheila sighed and pushed a long wet strand of hair back from her face. Part of her was tempted to simply let the matter lie, knowing that he would never bring it up again, but her conscience wouldn't allow it. She owed him her honesty, at the very least, now more than ever.

“That's not why I haven't been around in so long. I mean, it _is_ , partly, but...” She took a deep breath and forced herself to continue. “After you dismantled the Device, it was hard for me to come back here.” She met his eyes finally and saw no surprise there. He had, she was sure, figured that out long ago. “I can't be in this room and not think about what happened. Every time I look at you, I'm reminded. And it's hard for me ... knowing that I'll never see them again.”

Dr. Reit nodded, and she was surprised to see honest regret cross his face. “I'd guessed as much,” he admitted sadly. Then he sighed, and for the first time looked truly old to her eyes. “I'm sure it won't help to tell you how much I regret that now, but I do.” His expression was terribly earnest. “You know I was just trying to protect you, Sheila. At the time you were so determined to go back that I was afraid you might sneak through again. After everything that had happened I simply couldn't allow you to put yourself in any more danger.”

Sheila nodded wordlessly, staring down at her hands. She understood his reasoning, of course. She'd always understood it, even as a heartbroken, angry teenager. That did not mean that she agreed with it, however, or that it somehow lessened the pain, even all these years later.

“But I _am_ sorry,” Dr. Reit was saying. “The moment I saw your face that day, I knew I'd made a terrible mistake. I told myself over and over again that I'd done the right thing, but ... ” He shook his head. “I regret disassembling the machine, my dear, very much. But more than that, I'm sorry that I hurt you so in the process.”

There was a sudden lump in Sheila's throat that took some work to swallow down. “I know,” she croaked. The sense of betrayal and devastation she'd felt on that day, so many years ago, was still painfully fresh in her mind. In light of recent events, it somehow seemed even worse.

Silence fell between them as Sheila struggled to contain her emotions. She knew that there was no point in rehashing the situation any further. They'd already had that discussion, years ago, when she had come over for a visit and discovered the Molecular Acceleration Transport Device reduced to nothing more than a pile of dead machinery on a table.

The sight had knocked the wind out of her. For a time she couldn't even speak. Dr. Reit had taken one look at her stunned expression and hustled her into a chair, afraid that she was about to faint. Looking back, she wondered how she didn't.

It had been nearly a year after their return from Ryudain and Sheila had been in a terribly restless state, quite literally torn between two worlds. She'd known that Dr. Reit wasn't in favor of her going back any time soon, but she'd never suspected that he'd go so far as to actually _dismantle_ his greatest invention, utterly destroying any chance she had of ever returning to the land of the Unicorn Queen.

And Sheila had always believed that she _would_ go back, someday. That belief was the only thing that kept her sane during all those months of dull, mundane normality.

When she'd come home the first time, all those years ago, it was to a world she suddenly found dull and tedious. Her _second_ return, however, had been far worse. There was no doubt that there were certain modern conveniences she'd missed, or that she'd been thrilled to see her parents and friends again. Still, despite all of that, she'd found it nearly impossible to readjust. She had lived a whole other life, and it had changed her in ways she could barely describe. Simply put, Sheila had done and seen and felt too much.

What was worse, she couldn't talk to anyone else about her experiences. Parents and friends alike, no one in their right mind would ever believe her. Only Dr. Reit knew the truth. After all, it was _his_ experimental transport device that she'd accidentally fallen through, landing in an honest to goodness, real-life parallel world where magic existed and people thought that she was a sorceress. In an incredible stroke of luck she'd been discovered by a band of women warriors riding unicorns ( _unicorns!_ ) who took her in and taught her to survive. Who had, in essence, become Sheila's makeshift family. A family that she would never see again.

Sometimes, when she was feeling particularly low and disconnected from her own world - from both worlds - as the years crawled by and she began to fear that she would forget their faces, Sheila could almost imagine that she had dreamt it all.

Almost.

She took a deep breath. A lesson she had learned years ago sprang to mind once again. What was done, was done. Nothing would be accomplished by dwelling on a situation that could not be changed.

“Actually,” she said, breaking the uncomfortable silence, “that's why I came to see you today.” She paused to steady herself, trying to hide how rattled she still was. “Something's happened, and I don't - there's no one else I can talk to.”

Dr. Reit's eyebrows shot up. Before he could speak, Sheila pushed up her right sleeve and bared the underside of her arm to him, wondering if he would remember, if he would recognize what he was looking at.

“These showed up again last week,” she explained, when he simply stared in silence. “Out of the blue, for no reason. And they look exactly like they did before, when Mardock poisoned me in the cave.”

The expression on Dr. Reit's face was a cross between disbelief and amazement. At the mention of the wizard's name, he looked back up at her sharply. “You're sure these are the same?”

Sheila nodded. “Positive.”

Dr. Reit took her arm and drew it closer, peering at the welts as if they were part of a new science experiment. “Do they hurt at all?” he asked, and when she shook her head he pressed on them carefully with his fingers. “They do seem healed,” he observed thoughtfully. “Are you sure you haven't been injured by something else, or some other animal, in the past few weeks? Perhaps something at work?”

Sheila shook her head. “There's nothing at the stable that could leave this sort of a mark,” she replied. “And I haven't been hanging around any lion cages lately, either. I'm sure I would have noticed this sooner, even if I had been.”

Dr. Reit frowned and pulled a pair of glasses out of his pocket. “Have you been sick?” he asked, switching on a nearby lamp and peering more intently at her arm. “Any hallucinations, fever, that sort of thing?”

Sheila leaned towards the light and watched as he studied her, wondering if he might notice something that she had somehow missed. “No,” she said. “Nothing like before.” Then she corrected herself. “Well, I've had some headaches, but those started months ago. Other than that I've been fine. I'm still fine.” She shrugged and looked down at her arm again. “They're just ... there.”

Dr. Reit's glasses reflected the lamplight as he looked back up at her, obscuring his eyes, but from the line of his mouth and the set to his shoulders Sheila knew that he was carefully considering everything she'd just told him. He sat in silence for a moment, lost in thought, and then abruptly jumped out of his seat. “I wonder,” he mused, crossing the room.

He dug around a bit in the storage space below the stairwell that led into the house, scooting several more stacks of books and something that looked like half of an old bicycle out of the way before emerging with a large, somewhat battered cardboard box. Wrapped in packing tape and camouflaged with bright stickers warning loudly of radioactivity, Sheila recognized it immediately. Her heart began to pound as Dr. Reit carried it back over to the table.

“If anything in _here_ has changed, we'll know we have a possible connection,” he explained, hefting the box onto the tabletop. Sheila watched as he began prying a corner of the tape loose, wanting to help but finding herself suddenly afraid to touch the thing. She hadn't looked inside this box in years, although she thought about it often. What if they opened it and everything was gone? What if -

“Here we are...” Dr. Reit yanked the last bit of packing tape free, pulling off a thin sheet of brown cardboard in the process. Crumpling it up and tossing it aside, he moved to open the flaps, then paused. “Would you like to do the honors?” he asked, almost apologetically. “These are all _your_ belongings, after all.”

Sheila hesitated for only a moment, wondering at how plainly her emotions were written across her face, before reaching forward and opening the box herself. She hadn't realized she was holding her breath until she released it, with a relieved whoosh, at what she saw inside.

There, wrapped securely in an old blanket, was her sword. Well, _Darian's_ sword, one he'd outgrown that Illyria had then passed along to Sheila during her training. She pulled it out of the box, careful of the still-sharp blade, and noticed immediately that _she_ had outgrown it as well. The hilt was too small now, even for her hand, and it no longer afforded quite as much reach, but the rush of emotion she felt at the sight of it nearly overcame her.

Beneath the sword was her sword belt, dagger, and the tunic she'd been wearing when she and Dr. Reit had returned from Ryudain nearly seven years ago. She had packed all of these things away mere days after her return. She'd hated being parted from any of it, but she could hardly hide a sword in her bedroom.

Each item brought back countless memories, almost all of them good. Except for the tunic, of course. _That_ had been Mardock's creation, part of an elaborate illusion he had spun around Sheila and Darian simply in order to kill them. She had been more than happy to leave _that_ behind.

A sudden thought struck. Setting the sword down carefully on the table, Sheila reached into the box and cautiously ran her fingers over the material, remembering how soft it had been. She gasped aloud when the fibers didn't so much come _apart_ in her hand as disintegrate beneath it. Literally.

Dr. Reit startled at her reaction. “What's wrong?”

Sheila peered into the box, scooping out the dagger and the belt and setting them aside. “My tunic...” She tried to get a grip on the thing, but it was like sifting through sand. It was as if the material had somehow collapsed in on itself and then dissolved at her touch. There was simply nothing left to hold onto. So instead she held up a handful of ... whatever it had become, looking less like ivory wool and more like a pile of very finely grained sugar.

Dr. Reit was flabbergasted. Sheila watched as he tried to come up with an explanation. “Don't tell me you have moths,” she joked, but there wasn't much humor in her voice. The two of them watched, mesmerized, as the strange material began to spill through Sheila's fingers like granules of sand. “Mardock created this tunic,” she murmured, watching as it bounced and scattered all over the floor. “And as soon as I touched it...”

“I'm sure there's a logical explanation,” Dr. Reit insisted. He peered into the box and scooped out a handful of the stuff for himself, rolling a bit of it between his fingers experimentally. “Perhaps the molecular structure was damaged somehow by the journey between the two worlds.”

“After all this time?” Sheila couldn't keep the skepticism out of her voice. “But not the sword, or the dagger? Or the belt?”

Dr. Reit opened his mouth and then closed it again. He was trying to hide his frustration, knowing very well what Sheila was implying and not liking it one bit.

He had never really approved of magic, although he could certainly not deny that it existed. Instead he considered it a form of power that simply wasn't understood or even classified yet by science, something that came from another world and had no real place or effect on Earth. This, also, was partly her fault.

The last of the “tunic” slid from her hand and Sheila rubbed her fingers together, noticing a vague, odd sense of warmth in her palm that definitely hadn't been there before. It was like an echo, almost; the last gasp of Mardock's power as it evaporated into the cold air of Dr. Reit's laboratory.

Mardock's power...

Sudden goose bumps pebbled her skin, and she tried without much success to suppress a shudder. “I think there _is_ a logical explanation,” she said, slowly. “Just not one involving science.”

Doubt and then alarm crossed the old man's face as he looked at her. “Sheila...”

She stood up and began to pace. A dark certainty was growing in her mind, one she was equal parts thrilled and frightened by. For a week she'd been telling herself not to jump to conclusions, not to get her hopes up. Not to be afraid.

“This storm...” Her feet came to a stop at the back porch door, her voice falling away as she observed Dr. Reit's haggard yard with new eyes. Night was falling and everything was shiny and wet in the near darkness. She was reminded suddenly of sodden dirt roads, of villagers peering out of doors and windows with frightened, suspicious faces. Of slogging through a forest in the middle of the night, haunted by wind and rain and lightening as a madman hunted her down at his leisure. “This is just like what happened in Campora, and all the way to Ryudain. The weather got worse and worse until the unicorns were able to renew themselves.”

A car drove slowly past the house and shattered the illusion, fishtailing just slightly before the driver regained control. Rain fell in sheets past the unnatural orange glow of awakening streetlights and Sheila wrapped her arms around herself, feeling oddly bereft. “It's happening again,” she murmured. When Dr. Reit gave no response, she turned back around to face him. “It's happening again, just like it's supposed to. Every seven years.”

“Sheila.” The expression on his face that was almost sad. “It's a bit premature to be jumping to that sort of conclusion, don't you think? I agree that this all makes for a very compelling set of coincidences, but I don't -”

“You told me once, a long time ago, that the time difference between our worlds might be artificial.” She crossed back over to him, suddenly so blindingly sure of herself that she could hardly believe he would doubt her. “That it might have to do with the Molecular Acceleration Transport Device itself, with the way it operated.” This was one of the few conversations they'd had after the destruction of the Device that Sheila clearly remembered, mostly because it had given her so much hope. She'd always assumed that he'd said that simply to make her feel better, but now...

“You said that if I could find a different way back, it's possible that there would be no time difference at all.”

Dr. Reit looked as though he were regretting his words. “In _theory_ , yes...”

“So seven years here would be seven years there.” Sheila felt oddly lightheaded as she spoke, overwhelmed by what it all meant. “That would make sense then, wouldn't it?” She looked around the lab, shaking her head at the sound of the rain outside. “All of this would make perfect sense...”

Dr. Reit was frowning now, but Sheila barely noticed. Her mind was spinning, and the creeping dread she'd been feeling since the reappearance of her scar momentarily vanished beneath a wave of pure elation.

Somehow, in some way, she was still connected to them. After all these years, after all of her failed attempts at magic and the countless fruitless summonings and meditations, something was _finally_ happening, and she felt almost desperately compelled to respond.

“I have to go,” she said abruptly. What she really meant was that she had to go _back_ , but she knew better than to say such a thing aloud. Besides, Dr. Reit's science could no longer help her. The Molecular Acceleration Transport Device was gone forever and it was time to find one of those “different ways” back to Arren that he'd spoken of. She could only think of one.

Maybe, this time, it would actually work.

“Sheila, wait!” Dr. Reit was hurrying after her, moving surprisingly quick for a man his age. Sheila had been so focused on her thoughts that she hadn't even noticed her feet moving until she found herself standing in front of the coat rack, grabbing onto her jacket. “Even if this is ... whatever you believe it to be, what can you possibly do? There's no way back, is there? And even if there were, I'm not sure it would be a good idea to return under such strange circumstances.”

Sheila turned to face him, shrugging into her coat. She wondered if he felt the same sense of deja vu that she did. It actually gave her more confidence, for some strange reason. “I'm not asking you to send me back, Dr. Reit,” she assured him. “I know that you can't.”

The relief on his face was all too obvious. “Well, then...”

She smiled. “Thanks for your help.” Then she surprised them both by stepping forward and giving him a quick, fierce hug. “I'll see you again soon.”

He blinked. “But -  Sheila, I really didn't -”

The last of his sentence was lost to the wind and rain, for she was already halfway out the door. Grimacing, Sheila ducked under the eaves again and hurried back to her car, weaving her way through the mud and weeds as her hair blew wildly about her face and stung her eyes. She was so focused on not slipping and falling that she never noticed the flash of movement behind her, the shadow that fell across one of the wide bright windows as Dr. Reit stood and watched her flee across his flooded front lawn. Then again, she wouldn't have stopped or slowed down much even if she _had_ seen him there.

Sheila had never told Dr. Reit about the magic, at least not what she'd done with it since their return, and she didn't dare hang around any longer and invite suspicion.

As she unlocked the driver's side door of her old Honda with cold fingers and slid inside, more grateful than ever to escape the rain, Sheila reflected that Dr. Reit had been correct about one thing, at least. She _was_ an adult now, perfectly capable of making her own decisions and living her own life.

And she would not be stopped a second time.


	3. The Open Window

Even in the dark she could see the clouds. They crouched above her mother's house like a closing fist, a blacker blackness against the night sky.

Sheila sat in her car for a moment, heart pounding, and began to have second thoughts. She was right about all of this, she _knew_ she was, but somehow it hadn't seemed entirely real until now. After all the years she'd spent reaching, searching desperately for some sort of sign ... well, this was a little extreme. Not to mention frightening.

_How_ it was possible, she couldn't say. Other than magic, of course. And on the drive home from Dr. Reit's house (during which she'd nearly been rear-ended twice ) Sheila's more rational side had emerged, reminding her of how dangerous it might be to return to Arren - if such a thing were really possible - under these sorts of circumstances. The reappearance of her scar, the disintegrated tunic - both were directly connected to Mardock. They had to be. What if he was somehow reaching across time for her, trying to draw her back into another trap? Impossible, she told herself. Besides the fact that he was most likely long dead, no sorcerer had ever been able to bridge the gap between their two worlds, not even Micula. That Dr. Reit had managed to do so at all had been a complete accident, owing entirely to science and blind, crazy luck.

And yet ... Sheila _had_ been drawn back once before, years ago, through her connection to the Unicorn Riders. Could all of this have something to do with them, or with the unicorns? And if so, how could she not try to go back?

She took a deep breath and stepped out of the car, clutching her jacket tightly in the rain. As she hurried towards the house, slipping once on a slick stone in the walkway, she wondered distantly if she weren't kidding herself. After all, she had tried countless times over the years to make some sort of connection, to send herself back. Nothing had ever come of it. She'd eventually reached the conclusion that magic just didn't work the same on Earth as it did in the land of the Unicorn Queen.

While she'd retained the ability to “ground” herself with the elements - had, in fact, gotten quite good at it - Sheila had never once been able to repeat her success with the Circle of Protection spell that had saved her life (twice) back on Arren.

Instead, as the years had passed and she'd struggled to learn, to remember every word that Micula, Laric, or anyone else had ever spoken about magic, she'd found herself more ... _aware_ of things, of people and events going on around her. She had developed an uncanny intuition that had given her an odd reputation, even amongst her friends. A sixth sense, Will had once called it, mostly to tease her.

If the phone rang, Sheila usually knew who was calling. If someone knocked on the door, she already knew who was there. Once she had looked at a professor of hers during class and had been unable to shake the image of him lying in a hospital bed, bandaged and unconscious. Two days later he was in a car accident that left him hospitalized for nearly a month.

And sometimes Sheila simply _heard_ things, voices or other sounds in the back of her mind that would often make no sense at all until hours or sometimes even days later. The worst example of this, of course, had been right before her father's death.

For some terribly frustrating, inexplicable reason, she'd never had any sense at all of his impending heart attack. Instead, for nearly two weeks prior, she'd heard the sound of her mother sobbing.

The first time it happened she'd been at school, in the middle of a particularly boring economics class. One moment she'd been taking notes and the next she was leaping from her seat, ignoring the curious looks from other students and the professor himself as she rushed out to call her parents. She'd been absolutely panicked, certain that something awful was happening, only to discover that her father was still at work and her mother had been taking advantage of a rare day off to do some gardening. She'd sounded perfectly fine and more than a little startled by Sheila's obvious concern.

After that Sheila heard the same sound almost every day, randomly, it seemed, which quickly began to drive her mad. Finally, after one particularly bad afternoon, Will sat her down and got her to admit what was happening. And while she knew better than to mention the crying, she _did_ tell him of her terrible fear that something horrible was about to happen to her mother. He'd looked at her oddly but hadn't argued, and the next day they'd taken off early from class and driven down to visit her parents. Who were, again, absolutely fine.

It wasn't until the following week that she got the awful call from her mother, and the expression on Will's face when he heard about Sheila's father's heart attack was almost fearful. He'd held and comforted her, but looking back on it now she could see the distance already starting to form.

Things were never quite the same between them after that, but months passed, really, before Sheila even noticed. She'd been too consumed with grief and despair and caring for her mother, whose devastation was even greater than her own. And, from that point on, she'd made a concentrated effort NOT to use magic. She stopped the meditations she'd been practicing almost every night. She quit grounding herself. She put away all the books she'd bought or checked out from the library over the years about magic, ancient spells, mythology, New Age theory, and whatever else seemed applicable to her strange situation.

None of the information had done her any good anyway. Whatever magic she _did_ possess was mostly useless, and in the end, had only caused her pain. After all, what good were visions and premonitions if you couldn't do anything about them?

Sheila had once asked the sorceress Micula that very question, and all these years later she could still hear the woman's maddeningly serene response. _Magic is not something to be used lightly,_ she had explained. _Neither you nor I may use magic to interfere unless it becomes absolutely necessary..._

Sheila wondered if “absolutely necessary” was a relative term. Then her thoughts turned darker, as they always did when she followed this line of thinking. Because there was always a second option.

What if she _could_ have done something, and simply hadn't realized it? What if she'd had the chance and ability to save her father's life and just hadn't understood?

Such possibilities were too familiar and painful to contemplate for very long. Sheila jerked her attention back to the present, blinking in the rain as she fumbled with the lock on her mother's front door. Finally it gave way and she hurried inside, raking her hair from her eyes as she closed the door and turned the lock again behind her. Then she paused, warily, half-afraid that something or someone might be lying in wait for her here. As if the malevolent energy from outside had somehow crept into the house while she was away, settling into drawers and dark corners, waiting for her to return.

But - no. Everything looked fine.

Unlike Dr. Reit's laboratory, there was not a leak or broken window to be found in her mother's house. Everything here was tidy and dry. Family pictures hung in even, silent witness on the walls. Books were lined up neatly on the shelves in the living room. In the light of a single lamp Sheila even spotted a pair of her own shoes tucked beneath the kitchen table, a forgotten reminder of some past visit when she'd accidentally left them behind.

She sagged a little against the door. Despite it's familiar, snug interior, this house was a far emptier place in her mind than Dr. Reit's had ever been. Since the day of her father's death, Sheila's childhood home had felt off-kilter to her, unbalanced, full of life and memories and yet ... _missing_ something, somehow.

Shaking herself, Sheila took a deep breath, shucked her coat and headed upstairs, flipping on a few more lights along the way. Her old bedroom, nothing more than a shell of it's former self since she'd graduated from high school and gone on to college, was markedly colder than the rest of the house, and as soon as she entered she saw why.

She'd left the window open.

Cursing, she hurried forward and slid the pane closed, grimacing at the feel of sodden curtains and the soaked bedspread beneath her knees. She remembered opening it, just enough to let in some air, much earlier that morning, but she was positive that she'd closed it again before leaving the house. With a sigh, she gathered up the ruined bedspread and threw it out into the hallway to worry about later. At the moment she had bigger concerns, and began rooting around in her suitcase in the dark.

She hadn't bothered turning on any lights in her bedroom. At a time like this there was only one kind of illumination she needed, and she'd almost left it behind.

Almost immediately her hand closed around the fat, waxy, familiar shape of a candle. A meditation candle, actually, one she'd bought a few years ago. She had no idea what had possessed her to bring it along this time. It had spent the last year or so sitting abandoned on a shelf in her dorm room, gathering dust.

Pulling it out, Sheila smiled and blew a strand of hair from her face, deciding to consider its presence a good omen.

She made a quick side-trip to the hall for some matches and returned, almost breathlessly, while the rain and wind pounded outside and the lights flickered downstairs. She refused to worry anymore about whether or not this would work, or even if it was a good idea. If she thought about it any further she might come to her senses again, and that was the last thing she wanted.

Sheila had tried hundreds of times over the years to find some way back to Arren. The only difference in tonight's effort was her scar, the eerily familiar weather and a nagging sense that this was the right thing to do. Which meant that she had to do it _now_ , quickly, while her chances, however slim or imagined, were still there.

Sheila settled herself on the floor and struck a match, lighting the candle and setting it down in front of her. Then she leaned back against the bedside, took a deep breath, and began to ground herself.

It had been more than a year since she'd last done this, but her body and mind settled back into the process with an ease and familiarity that was almost hypnotic. She realized abruptly how much she had missed the sensation, this feeling of connection between herself and the world around her. It relaxed her, aligned her senses with something that was far greater and more powerful than she would ever be. It was comforting somehow, to realize how tiny and unimportant she was in the grander scheme of things.

Sheila's eyes were focused on the candle's tiny flame, but her mind was drifting. This was the point when she always began to feel a direct connection with one element or another. Sometimes it would be the wind, other times the earth, occasionally the water. More than once she had lost herself to the seductive glow of the full moon's light, and that was when she always felt the most powerful, the most connected, the most in tune with the natural world.

This time, however, she felt the storm.

Not just the moisture in the air, or the static electricity, or the smell of the rain, but the angry energy of the storm itself. It was an unnatural blackness that hovered above the house and coalesced around her as soon as she became aware of it, drawn to her like a moth in the darkness when a flame is suddenly lit. For a moment Sheila mentally recoiled, almost breaking the meditation, not wanting to be noticed or touched by whatever this thing was. Never before had she gotten such a response during a summoning.

Her breath was coming quicker now, but she hardly noticed. The candle's glow was nothing more than a vague orange light behind her eyelids. There was _pressure_ in the storm, a focused sort of feeling that gathered around but didn't touch her. She felt a breeze from someplace and a long strand of her own hair brushed against her face. Faintly she knew that this was impossible, that she had closed the window and that the rest of the house was locked up tight, but she was too far gone now to think any more about it.

Slowly Sheila began to realize that the strange energy was not actively trying to grab onto her. It was there, but it seemed to be making a point of avoiding any direct contact. Cautiously she sent out a tendril of awareness, picturing her hand reaching through a dense cloud. The darkness pulled away, still surrounding her but not connecting. Encouraged, she took another breath and reached further, extending herself.

The darkness parted, revealing more darkness. Again Sheila reached.

And again.

Time slowed. Whether minutes or hours had passed, she couldn't tell. Still there was nothing, nothing. Her hands shook in her lap. Sweat beaded on her forehead. She felt as if she had stretched herself out as far as she could go without breaking, and it still wasn't far enough. Exhausted and confused, Sheila decided to pull back, rest for a few minutes and try again.

Just then, abruptly, someone else was there with her in the darkness. Reality tilted as a hand reached out from the other side, wherever that "other side" was, and grabbed onto her own. Sheila was so shocked that she jerked away from the contact, instinctively trying to pull free.

But it was already too late.

The phantom hand had closed around her own with an iron grip and gave a single, tremendous, bone-jarring _yank_.

The floor fell out from beneath her. The candle died. Sheila opened her mouth to cry out and found herself unable to draw breath. The surrounding darkness, silent and looming until now, rushed in with a deafening roar and smothered her completely.

After that, there was nothing at all.

  

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

  
 

When Sheila regained consciousness again, it was to the shocked realization that she was falling.

The split second she spent with her eyes open was more than enough time to convince her that looking down probably wasn't a good idea. She gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut, unwilling to witness the land - whatever land it might be - rushing up to greet her. The wind hurtled past with a furious roar as she plummeted to what she assumed was earth, tears streaming from her eyes.

Suddenly, like a slap in the face, everything went cold. Cold and icy and wet, like falling through a snowstorm. Sheila heard herself gasp involuntarily, but didn't dare open her eyes. The mere _sensation_ of falling was bad enough, and her thoughts spun wildly, laced with panic.

None of her previous arrivals had felt anything like this. They'd all seemed ... _instantaneous_ , somehow. This was something entirely different. Had she made a mistake? Had she done something wrong? Had whoever it was on the other side pulled her through to her death?

There was a sudden roaring sound, a kind of strange surging rush from somewhere beneath her, and Sheila's next thought, more of a desperate prayer that she would land on something soft, turned out to be pointless. She couldn't have known that there was actually _water_ beneath her this time, a whole ocean in fact, until she hit it.

Hard.

 

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

  
 

“There now. Get it all up, girl. You'll be all right.”

Sheila came back to herself for the second time with a sickening jolt. Her body was lurching and her eyes stung terribly. She was soaking wet, and for a split second she wondered wildly if she were still falling. She couldn't see and she could barely breath and her lungs felt like they were on fire. It wasn't until she felt hands on her arm that she realized she was actually lying down somewhere, that someone had rolled her onto her back. She coughed wrackingly, trying to get her breath back, struggling to sit up and figure out what had happened.

A pair of hands pushed her back down again, firmly, and Sheila found herself helpless to resist. Every muscle ached, every bone was screaming, and there was a watery, rancid taste in her mouth, tinged with blood. Her head pounded so terribly that it brought tears to her eyes.

“You stay down there a bit longer.” That voice, the same one she'd heard before, erupted from somewhere above her. _A man's voice,_ her mind supplied dizzily. “You've just vomited up half the sea. You're lucky it's pouring out here, otherwise I might have thrown you back.”

Sheila coughed and blinked and squinted, trying to clear her vision. There was another sudden lurch and her stomach dropped in response. She caught the distinct scent of fish, which didn't help her nausea any.

A ship? Was she aboard a ship?

“Bren! Bring out a dry blanket!”

Sheila took a breath to speak but only ended up coughing instead, bringing up more water in the process. She rolled onto her side, hair clinging to her face as she scrabbled uselessly at the wooden planks, trying to stop the spinning in her head. Everything hurt. Everything stung. There was nothing but sea water left in her stomach and she seemed to have swallowed a whole lot of it.

The voice - the man - came nearer. “You'll be all right,” he said again, with a gruff note of sympathy. “It'll take some time to work all that water out, but you're damned lucky to be alive. I thought sure you were already dead before we'd even fished you out.”

Sheila spluttered and sneezed and tried to breathe again, this time having more luck. “Thank you,” she finally gasped, slumping back against the deck. She just lay there for a moment, breathing, intensely grateful for the clear airway. It was then that she became consciously aware of the rain, the pelt of it against her already-soaked skin, and was dimly amazed by the discovery that it was storming here as well. Wherever 'here' was.

Someone knelt beside her, a detail she hadn't noticed until she felt fingers pushing the long, wet tendrils of hair from her face. Her vision hadn't improved much; everything still seemed blurry and dark, and all she could really make out was the rather smudged form of a man leaning over her.

“What's your name, girl?”

She had to cough again, twice, before she was able to get her voice working. “Sheila,” she finally replied, grimacing at the pain in her throat, the pain _everywhere_. “God ... where am I?”

“You're aboard the _Raven_ , sailing just west now of Blue Harbor in Tarrow.”

This meant absolutely nothing to her. She'd never heard of any such place, although she was hardly thinking clearly at the moment. Her mind spun. Dear god, had she even landed on the right planet?

Her rescuer gripped her arm, misunderstanding her addled reaction. “Can you stand?” Without waiting for a reply he hauled her to her feet. Sheila teetered against him, struck by a sudden wave of vertigo and legs that seemed weaker than jelly. “Steady there.” The man kept an arm firmly about her shoulders, holding her up. “Bren!” he shouted over her head, directing his voice towards someone behind them. “Where are you, boy?”

A sudden gust of wind and spatter of rain set Sheila to shivering. It felt as if the water and the cold had settled down into her very bones, that she would never escape it. Her teeth began to chatter and violent chills pricked up and down her spine. She slammed her eyes shut as the world tilted, with a nauseating lurch, to one side.

Sheila's last conscious memory was that of her rescuer's muttered oath as he caught at her arms, barely managing to keep her from hitting her head on the wooden deck as she slid back down into oblivion.


	4. A Dark and Stormy Night

The candle's light was faint and flickering, giving off only the slightest glow in the dripping darkness. There was a sharp hissing sound as the wick curled in on itself, followed by the smell of burnt wax and a thin trail of black smoke that clotted briefly in the air before curling towards the ceiling.

He frowned, but resisted the urge to trim the wick. He could not do so without putting out the tiny flame, and once it was gone he had little chance of relighting it. Grimacing, he leaned closer to the meager light and squinted at the words on the scroll, cursing the rain and the flooded roads that had prevented him from arriving in time to join the others.

_We've gone ahead,_ Cam had written. _We cannot fly in this weather and we dare not wait any longer to travel on foot. Your sister sends her regards and her wish that you follow quickly, as the situation has not changed. I do not know how far you are behind us, but if the rain lets up we will pause for a time in Tarrow. We will meet you in Campora, if not sooner..._

Darian swore, rubbing at his eyes. There was no way he'd be meeting up with Cam, or anyone else, in Tarrow. There was too much time and distance between them now, not to mention water.

According to Irsa, the woman who owned the tiny shed he was currently huddled in, Cam and the others had departed two nights ago, leaving her with several pieces of silver, this scroll, and a description of the man she was to give it to. The scroll had still been sealed when she'd handed it to him, but from the wording of the missive it was obvious that Cam hadn't entirely trusted her. There was no mention of Illyria directly, or any further detail regarding the “situation” in Campora. The note hadn't even been addressed to Darian specifically, for which he was grateful. If the local townsfolk knew who he _really_ was, their reception of him would have been quite different. Better, probably, at least in the outset, but he'd never much cared for the notoriety that came with being the Queen's brother.

He read the note over one last time, briefly considered trying to start a fire with it, then changed his mind and tucked it away in one of his saddlebags, which sat in a puddle of water at his feet. Aside from the fact that the paper would burn far too quickly and there was no other dry material to be found for miles, Irsa had specifically warned him, as they'd stood outside in the pouring rain, NOT to start a fire in her ramshackle shed. Instead she'd grudgingly gifted him with this single fat candle that was already threatening to die in the frigid air.

Trying to control his frustration, Darian stood up and took two steps to the open doorway, careful to remain inside as he watched the rain coming down in sheets through the midnight darkness. Thunder rumbled, and from somewhere in the distance came the familiar, shrill cry of a nervous horse. The weather was getting worse, constantly worse, and Darian could understand the animal's fear.

He had, of course, ridden through rain before, but this was something entirely different. _This_ storm had washed out roads and bridges, flooded low-lying villages, knocked over trees and pushed so hard at Arrow's flank on the trail that it was all Darian could do to keep upright in the saddle. By the time they'd reached the village of Eszran earlier that evening he'd been desperately grateful to find shelter, however cramped and inhospitable it might be.

“Cursed rain,” Irsa had spat, glowering at him from beneath her sodden shawl as if he had summoned up the weather himself. “Tell your king to put a stop to this, if he's so powerful. Tell him to cast a spell and send away these storms.”

Darian had opened his mouth to tell her that it wasn't that easy, that in all likelihood the storms would stop on their own by the setting of the next full moon, but she had shoved an armful of threadbare blankets at him and turned away, stalking back towards her small farmhouse through the muddied remains of what had once been a fairly large garden.

He supposed he could understand her attitude, but that didn't make it any less aggravating.

Eszran was a tiny village huddled in a valley on the side of a mountain pass, nearly a two-week journey from the capitol city. Their main livelihood consisted of serving travelers as they passed through from the eastern part of the empire up towards Campora. Darian himself had only stopped here once or twice before, usually preferring to ride straight on through towards Tarrow instead. That being the case, he'd never run into any sort of trouble until tonight.

It had taken a good deal of persuading - and eventually four pieces of silver - to convince Irsa to stable Arrow. There were few other horses in her stables that night besides his own, and innkeepers in this part of the empire were usually grateful for any sort of business they could get, even if it came from a lowly, soaking-wet Camporan soldier. He'd been surprised by Irsa's thinly veiled hostility, which she'd stubbornly clung to even _after_ he'd paid her.

“I've got no other room,” she had declared, after he'd led Arrow into an empty stall and removed his saddle. “Unless you want to sleep outside or go knocking on someone else's door in the middle of the night -” here she had paused and given him a severe look, clearly conveying just how bad an idea she judged that to be “- you'll have to sleep in the shed. And if anything is missing in the morning you can be sure your superiors will hear about it, even if I have to walk all the way down to Campora myself to make the report.”

At the time Darian had been too road-weary to argue with the woman, let alone defend his own honor. He had no desire to go traipsing through town, soaking wet and freezing cold, looking for better shelter. So he'd swallowed his pride and accepted Irsa's offer - at the cost of another two pieces of silver, more than he could really afford after two weeks on the road - settling into her broken down shed with a sputtering candle, some wet blankets, and a handful of trail bread that was nearly soaked through.

Looking back on it now, he realized that Irsa's refusal to listen was probably just as well. No explanation he could have given - be it the truth or otherwise - would have helped to quell her fears. Folk on the eastern edge of the empire were just as superstitious as their northern cousins. These storms had been incredibly destructive and clearly not normal. The blame had to be placed somewhere, and as always, magic was the most convenient scapegoat. Most folk in these parts believed that sorcery was something to be mistrusted and feared, and anyone who made use of it was highly suspect.

Even the King himself.

In the last village he'd taken shelter at, a sodden little place called Niobe, Darian had heard whispers of curses, of evil spells and unlucky signs. A group of farmers gathered at a local tavern, their crops washed out and their animals drowned, had gone so far as to blame Laric directly, speculating that he'd brought some sort of evil down upon the empire through his magic.

Which was ridiculous, of course, all of it. Laric was utterly devoted to the well being of his people; only his love for his family was greater. And the storms would end as soon as the next full moon, just as they had seven years ago.

Darian had tried to explain this to the men in the tavern, too angered by their accusations to hold his tongue any longer. In return they'd laughed and scoffed at him. However, when one of them noticed the Royal Crest on the sheath of his sword and on the long, rain-soaked cloak he was wearing, when they realized that he was actually _from_ Campora, all laughter had stopped. Their bitter amusement turned to fear, the little group had broken up quietly and fled, obviously afraid that Darian would carry word back to the King of their possibly treasonous discussion.

Another ridiculous assumption, but he had to admit that the expression on their faces had given him just the tiniest bit of satisfaction anyway.

Sighing, he raked his hair out of his eyes and peered further into the outside darkness. It was impossible to see through the clouds, but instinct told him that there was still a good four or five hours of night left. Time enough to get some decent rest before packing up his meager belongings and leaving again at first light, weather and mud be damned. If they had any luck at all, they would reach Tarrow by late tomorrow night. He held no illusions that they'd catch up to the others, but most of the roads than ran further inland from that point were much better maintained, offering quicker travel. And Arrow, while he was certainly no unicorn, ran like the wind.

Still, a traitorous voice in the back of Darian's mind whispered that such desperate haste was nothing more than a fool's errand. And probably, that was true. He had already fallen too far behind. The full moon would set in six days, and even if the rain stopped tonight, even if they ran without stopping, they would never make it back in time.

Not to Campora, and certainly not to Ryudain.

Darian inhaled deeply, smelling wet earth and rain and the sodden planks of wood that made up the shed. _Ryudain_. It seemed wrong somehow, spending so much time and energy to get back to a place that had only ever caused him pain. He had no reason to believe that this time would be any different.

Unwilling to pursue such thoughts any further, especially on a night like this, he turned his back on the rain and pinched out the sputtering candle. He stacked a few musty old bales of hay in the doorway, hoping to shield himself from at least _some_ of the spattering rainfall. Thinking briefly of Arrow, holed up in a snug stable out of the rain with hay and oats and clean water to drink, he decided that his horse had clearly gotten the better deal tonight.

With another sigh, Darian settled down onto his borrowed blankets and tried to think warm thoughts. There was nothing left to do but sleep, and hope that things would look better in the morning.

  
  


<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

  
  


Warmth.

There was actual _warmth_ coming from somewhere.

It was such a strange sensation that it brought Sheila back to herself for the third time, luring her gently out of the hazy, half-awake daze she'd been floating in for what felt like years.

Slowly, she pried her eyes open. The first thing she noticed was that her vision had cleared, which was a huge relief, and that she was lying in a small dark room next to a fire. She could hear someone or something moving around on her other side and turned her head to look. Instantly she was hit with a vicious wave of vertigo, mercilessly assaulted by her body's memory of the tossing waves and the terrible rushing roar of her fall. She gasped, slamming her eyes shut, and spent a moment concentrating on being still, being calm, desperately grasping at every meditation skill she had ever learned.

She would _not_ throw up again. She would not.

“Awake, are you?”

It was a woman's voice that cut into her thoughts, and despite everything else Sheila felt ridiculously glad for the distraction. Rather than trying to turn her head again she settled for only moving her eyes, which didn't help much but at least kept her stomach happy. She couldn't see anything other than the orange glow of a fire on her left and the shadowy darkness of a room on her right, but soon enough it didn't matter.

A woman came to stand over her. In the light of the fire her kind, concerned smile was clear and comforting. She was older and pleasantly plump, her dark, gray-streaked hair pulled back into a sensible bun. She wore a brown, long-sleeved tunic trimmed in green and what looked like a rather threadbare kitchen apron. “How do you feel?” she asked, laying her palm against Sheila's forehead with a mother's practiced ease. “You're getting a bit warmer, I think. Good. I was starting to worry.”

Sheila opened her mouth to speak, to ask one of the million or so obvious questions that were coming slowly to mind, but before she could get her voice working the woman had turned and disappeared from view again. Sheila could only listen helplessly to her footsteps as they moved briskly across what sounded like a stone floor.

“Don't try to sit up yet, if you can help it,” her voice called back. “I'm going to get you some water and some warmer clothes. You'll feel much better once you're dry.”

Dry. That was right. She was still wearing her soaked sweater and jeans. For the first time Sheila became aware of the clammy, cold feel of the material against her skin. And something else as well...

Cautiously, she reached across her body with one hand. A blanket slid down from around her shoulders as she inched her fingers along her other arm, along the left side of her body. She winced as pain flared at the first touch. She had no clear memory of her actual “landing,” but she must have hit the water on her left side. From shoulder to thigh, every muscle ached in that bone-deep, distantly throbbing sort of way that implied a whole lot more pain down the road.

“I don't think you broke anything.”

The woman was back, and without thinking Sheila turned her head to look. This time around the dizziness wasn't _quite_ as bad, but she grimaced anyway and tried, without much success, to breathe through it. Her face must have looked rather green, because after a moment she felt the woman's hand on her forehead again.

“Just lie still,” she said quietly. “No sudden movements for a while. You've had quite a day, I think. You're lucky to be alive.”

Sheila swallowed and dared a nod, relieved when it didn't cause a fresh round of nausea. She lay still for a moment, waiting for her head to stop spinning and her equilibrium to follow suit. When she was finally able to open her eyes again, the woman stood looking down at her, arms folded thoughtfully across her middle. She regarded Sheila with concerned curiosity.

“I don't recognize you at all,” she stated, as if in surprise. “Do you know where you are?”

Sheila resisted the impulse to shake her head, feeling mildly triumphant at her success, and cleared her throat instead. “No.” Her voice was hoarse and gravely, but at least she could speak. That horrible sour taste still lingered in her mouth, though, and she was trying desperately to ignore it.

The woman frowned. “You're in Tarrow, at the fort on Blue Harbor,” she explained. At Sheila's blank look, she continued, “It was my husband who found you out in the water and brought you in. Ban, captain of the _Raven_. My name is Eda, I'm a cook here during the day. Head cook, I should say.”

If she expected Sheila to comprehend a word of what she'd just said, Eda was bound for disappointment. Again with Tarrow, again with Blue Harbor. Sheila had a distant memory of being told something along those same lines when she'd woken up aboard ship the first time around. The problem was, neither name meant a thing to her.

Eda's frown deepened. Then, to Sheila's surprise, she leaned down until they were nearly face-to-face. “Tell me something, truly.” She lowered her voice. “You're not some sort of evil sorceress, are you? I'm not risking my life by standing here, am I?”

Sheila blinked. For a moment she couldn't think of a single thing to say. Then she shook her head again, despite herself. “No,” she rasped, stunned. “Not at all.”

The older woman studied her silently, searching Sheila's eyes for truth. After a long, tense moment she nodded and straightened up again, apparently satisfied with whatever she saw there. “Good.” She stepped away briefly and came back carrying a simple cup and pitcher. “I didn't think so.”

Sheila was only half listening, so focused was she on the sight of Eda pouring a cup of water. Despite the fact that she'd spent the last ... however many hours it was soaking wet, Sheila found herself suddenly, desperately thirsty. Dehydration, she realized. If she'd been feeling at all better she probably would have laughed at the irony.

“Do you feel like sitting up yet?”

No, not really, but she'd give it a shot.

Slowly, carefully, and with Eda's help, Sheila pushed herself up into a sitting position. There was still some dizziness, but nothing like before. As long as she didn't move her head too much she seemed to be all right. The left side of her body throbbed far more insistently at this change in position, but Sheila made a conscious decision to ignore the pain as she reached for the cup Eda offered.

“Careful now,” the woman admonished as she took her first gulp. “Don't make yourself sick again.”

Feeling for a moment like she was back at home with her mother hovering nearby, Sheila forced herself to drink slowly, savoring the taste of the cool water as it ran down her throat. And almost instantly, she felt better. It was amazing how much good a simple glass of water could do a person. “Thank you,” she breathed, feeling human once more.

“You're welcome.” Eda poured her another half-cup full and watched with obvious satisfaction on her face as Sheila finished it off. Then she nodded to herself, pleased. “I'll bring you some soup later, once we're sure that your stomach is settled.”

Thanking her a second time, Sheila handed the cup back and took a long, deep breath. The fire at her back felt delightful and the urge to lie down again and bask in its warmth was nearly overpowering. She was terribly sore and her body was clamoring loudly for sleep, but something Eda mentioned was nagging at her. “You said this is a fort?” She took another breath, bracing herself. “For what army?”

Eda looked at her strangely. “The Camporan army,” she replied, as if it should have been obvious.

Had Sheila been standing up, her legs would have given out beneath her. For a moment she couldn't find words. “I'm - we're in Campora?” she stammered, with a pounding heart.

“Of course. Tarrow sits on the very edge of the Empire.” Eda gathered up the blanket that had fallen away during Sheila's slow migration and wrapped it back around her shoulders. Then she pressed her fingers to the younger woman's cheek in obvious concern. “You must have taken quite a knock to the head,” she observed, frowning. “How in the world did you end up in the water?”

Sheila opened her mouth to reply - and caught herself. In the past she'd always told the truth about her otherworldly origins. Well, mostly. This time around, being older and wiser, she wasn't entirely sure that was the best idea. At least not until she had a better understanding of her situation.

“I'm ... from Campora,” she said, carefully. And that was true enough, in a way. “I've just - I've been gone, for a very long time. I was on my way back and I guess I got ... lost, somehow.”

Eda nodded. “I thought as much, since you speak our language. But I must say, I've never seen anyone wearing anything like _that_ in Campora.” She gave Sheila's soggy sweater and blue jeans a critical and rather doubtful once-over. “Where exactly have you been all this time?”

Sheila scrambled desperately for an explanation, wishing she had a clearer head to think with. Fortunately, she was saved by the sound of a sharp knock from across the room. She glanced past Eda's shoulder just in time to see a door swing open on the opposite wall.

A young woman entered, carrying a bundle of clothing in one arm. Her dark hair was wound up in braids atop her head and she wore a long, crimson-colored tunic and dark cloak, both of which looked decidedly wet. She was moving quickly, despite the distracted look on her face, until she caught sight of Sheila. Then her feet came to an abrupt and sudden halt.

“Oh, she's - you're awake.” Her expression was a strange cross between surprised and fearful. She began to inch backwards toward the door, clutching her bundle to her chest like a shield. “I should tell Solan...”

Eda dismissed the very idea with a wave of her hand. “Don't be silly, there's nothing to be afraid of. Come and meet our guest.” She turned back to Sheila, smiling again. “Sheila? That _is_ your name, yes?” When Sheila nodded in confusion, Eda patted her arm. “So my husband said,” she explained.

The girl drew nearer, clearly hesitant. Eda caught at her hand and pulled her closer still, pointedly ignoring the expression on her face. “Sheila, this is my oldest daughter, Dasis. You and she are of an age, I think.”

Dasis offered an uncertain smile in which Sheila saw her mother's eyes, wide and green. She was very pretty, with high cheekbones and near flawless skin, but there was no mistaking her obvious discomfort. Sheila smiled back, awkwardly, while Dasis simply stared in silence until Eda nudged at her arm.

“Oh. I ... brought some things for you to change into. I'm sure you must be freezing after ... everything.” Cautiously she handed Sheila the bundle of clothing she'd been carrying, careful not to touch any part of her. Then she took a quick step back and pulled her cloak more tightly about her shoulders, as if for protection. In the firelight Sheila could see the fine embroidery on the collar and sleeves of her tunic, the thin beaded bracelets that adorned her wrists.

Dasis turned away from her again, intent on her mother. “I really _must_ tell Solan," she insisted. "It's only proper that he speak to her.”

“Before she's eaten? Before she's strong enough even to stand up on her own?” Eda stooped to gather a few more blankets and other things up from the floor. “This poor girl nearly died today, Dasis. Surely even you can see that she is no evil sorceress sent from the heavens to destroy us.”

Dasis looked scandalized, and then outraged. “I said no such thing!” she protested, following her mother about the room. She lowered her voice in a vain attempt at keeping their conversation private, but in such a small space it really made no difference. “Only that she should be watched, and then questioned, if she survived.” Her eyes darted back to Sheila quickly, almost guiltily, as if suddenly remembering that she was still there.

“She _has_ survived, and I have _already_ questioned her.” Eda set her pile of blankets firmly on the table and picked up the pitcher, pouring Sheila another glass of water. When she spoke again, the tone of her voice left no room for argument. “Besides. 'Proper' would be waiting until morning, at least. I won't hear of it otherwise.”

Dasis looked completely exasperated. “Mother...”

“Enough.” She gave her daughter a severe look and then turned her attention back to Sheila. “We'll leave you now. Make sure to lay your wet things out by the fire and I'll be back in a few minutes with some soup for you.”

Sheila opened her mouth to speak, confused and more than a little alarmed by everything she'd just heard. “But -”

“Don't you worry.” Eda gave her another comforting smile, accompanied this time by a wink. “We'll figure it all out in the morning.” Then she took her daughter's arm and marched them both across the room and out the door. Dasis was whispering anxiously in her mother's ear, but Eda did not seem the slightest bit interested.

And then Sheila was alone, huddled by a fire in a tiny room, in a town she'd never heard of, on a world she hadn't set foot in for almost seven full years.

She sat there for a moment, perfectly still, and listened to the fire snap. In the meager orange light she noticed, for the first time, that someone had painted designs or glyphs of some sort directly onto the walls. She squinted, recognizing a man and a horse and some sort of birdlike shape, but it was hard to be sure. An elaborate geometric pattern done all in red crept around the edges of the ceiling. There was some writing as well, but nothing she could make out clearly.

Sheila closed her eyes again and tried to stay calm, forcing the breath in and out slowly through her mouth until she didn't feel quite as dizzy.

She had done it. She had made it back. She was _in_ Campora, somewhere...

Her brain nagged at her to get up, to look around and figure out what was going on. Unfortunately, her battered body had other ideas.

Slowly, lacking the energy to do anything else, she took another deep breath and began to undress.


	5. Tarrow

It was the silence, really, that woke her.

“It stopped raining.” Her voice sounded strange and overloud in the stillness of her little room, even to her own ears. She'd almost startled _herself_ with it.

Propped up on her elbows and wrapped in blankets, Sheila cocked her head to one side and listened. Not only was there no rainfall, the sound of which had become her constant companion over the past two weeks, but there was actual _sunlight_ coming in through the single small window on the opposite wall. Muted, rather pale sunlight, but sunlight all the same.

How could that possibly be?

As far as she knew, and for whatever reason, the timing of the moon's phases were identical between her world and this one. While the storm had succeeded in blotting it out for days, Sheila knew that the _full_ moon would not be rising for at least another four or five. If her Ryudain theory was correct, if history was indeed repeating itself, then the storms should be continuing until then. Shouldn't they?

Grimacing a little, Sheila pushed herself up and swung her legs over the side of the simple cot she'd been given to sleep on. Cautiously she got to her feet, swaying a little until she got her balance back. Once she was certain that she wouldn't fall over, she wrapped a blanket around her shoulders like a cape and shuffled across the room to the window. Peering out, she got her first real look at the town of Tarrow.

Well, part of it, anyway.

There was a wide, crudely paved stone road directly outside her window, on the other side of which sat a row of low buildings that seemed to stretch all the way down the street. Muddy and waterlogged, everything looked shiny and gray in the watery light. People passed by in both directions, some leading horses and donkeys, others carrying baskets of food or other things. Most of them looked like soldiers, armed and dressed in Camporan colors.

A sudden gust of cold wind, smelling strongly of soggy earth and brackish water, whistled past her face and Sheila shivered, peering up towards the sky. The rain had indeed stopped, but the clouds still hung there with a pale, strangely ominous portent, and everything, everywhere, was dripping.

But it made no sense. The storms should be _increasing_ , not breaking apart...

“Good afternoon.”

Sheila jumped and turned to find Dasis standing in the doorway, one hand on the wooden frame. The other girl looked wary and a bit startled herself, but stepped inside anyway, carrying a small plateful of bread and a covered bowl. “Are you feeling any better?”

Sheila blinked and cleared her throat. “Yes, actually ... I think I am.”

Dasis nodded stiffly and set the bowl and plate on the table by the hearth. “My mother will be glad to hear it,” she said, busying herself with stirring up the fire. “You were asleep for a very long time.”

“I was?”

Dasis nodded again, looking at her askance. “It's nearly sunset, and you've been asleep since early last evening.”

Sheila gaped at her a moment before getting control of herself. She hadn't slept that long in ... had she ever slept that long? She smiled, rather sheepishly. “I guess that explains why I feel so much better.”

Dasis did not return her smile. Instead, she motioned towards the table. “I've brought you some dinner,” she explained, needlessly. “My mother would have come, but my sister has taken ill again and needs tending.”

“Is everything all right?” Sheila asked, mostly to make conversation.

Dasis shrugged. “Who knows?” She tugged her long cloak about her shoulders and sat down in a chair next the fire. “My sister is ever in need of something.”

Sheila had no real reply to that, and apparently Dasis had nothing else to add, so she wandered over to the table and picked up a piece of bread. Dressed in a borrowed tunic and wrapped in a blanket, she felt rather silly standing next to Dasis in her finely sewn clothing. Still, her appetite had returned with a vengeance and she had no intention of ignoring it.

A few moments of vaguely uncomfortable silence passed as Sheila ate her dinner and Dasis stared into the fire she'd rekindled. Finally, just as she was finishing off her soup, the other woman spoke again.

“I have to go into town for a few things, candles and food and such.” She looked over at Sheila with inscrutable eyes. “My mother thought you might want to come along and purchase some things yourself, for your journey. If you feel well enough, of course.”

Sheila hesitated only a moment before nodding. Dasis was obviously uncomfortable around her, for whatever reason, but at least she wasn't a _total_ stranger, and it wouldn't make much sense to wander around Tarrow all by herself. And there was something else bothering her, something Dasis had mentioned the night before, that she couldn't help but ask about now. 

“What about - you said there was someone who wanted to speak with me?”

Dasis looked genuinely surprised by the question. “Solan,” she said, after a long moment. “My husband. He is commanding officer here at the fort.” She shifted a little in her seat and returned her gaze to the fire. “I thought he would want to speak with you, but he has ... other concerns today. The storms have caused much damage and it is important that repairs be made as soon as possible.”

Sheila sat back down on her cot, watching as Dasis tried, without much success, to hide the annoyance on her face.

“And you think that he should have come here?” Sheila had no idea what possessed her to say that, other than the fact that it was obviously true.

Dasis shot her another startled look, raising her chin angrily. “I do not question my husband,” she retorted. “If he has decided that you are not dangerous, then I am sure he is correct.”

Sheila's eyebrows shot up. She felt a sudden bizarre and completely inappropriate urge to laugh. “You think I'm _dangerous_?”

Dasis looked almost insulted by Sheila's obvious amusement. “I think that your appearance here is very strange,” she replied, stiffly. “And even if you _are_ from Campora, as my mother says, and even if you _did_ get lost, that does not explain how you ended up floating in the middle of the bay. Or why sailors aboard my father's ship say they heard a splash just before you were spotted, as if you fell from somewhere.” Her eyes narrowed pointedly. “Which is impossible, of course, since there were no other ships at sea that night and nowhere but the sky for you to have fallen from.” Her voice had taken on a definite sarcastic note there at the end and Sheila wasn't sure quite how to respond.

“You think I'm some sort of evil sorceress?”

When Dasis's only reply was to stare at her stonily, Sheila was no longer able to contain her smile. She'd been accused of this sort of thing before, after all, and in a weird way it was nice to know that some things never changed.

“If I were a sorceress of any kind, evil or otherwise, I think I'd have done a better job of getting myself here,” she said. “If your father hadn't found me I doubt I'd even be alive right now.” Her side still throbbed with the memory, in fact, a sensation that was becoming harder to ignore.

When Dasis continued to stare, not looking at all convinced, Sheila sighed in exasperation. “Look, I promise you - I'm not any kind of evil _anything_. It's just ... it's a long story, but I'm just trying to get back to Campora. That's really all there is to it.”

Dasis considered this for a moment, skeptically. “What about the weather?” she demanded, nodding towards the window. “The storm broke almost as soon as you arrived, as if it were part of a spell that had been cast. How do you explain that?”

Sheila shrugged helplessly, wondering exactly how far this woman's paranoia would reach. “I don't know,” she admitted. “Coincidence? I can't explain it. I have no idea.” She sighed and rubbed at her eyes. “I wish that I did.”

Dasis regarded her with clear disbelief. “I'm sure you've heard about the strange things that have been happening here lately. You cannot expect us to believe that your ... _arrival_  is just a coincidence.”

Sheila frowned, almost afraid to ask. “What strange things?”

Dasis crooked an eyebrow. “Rain showers on clear days,” she began, as if reciting a list from memory. Sheila half expected her to hold up a hand and start ticking items off on her fingers. “Snowstorms on the beach, in the middle of summer. Two months ago hundreds upon hundreds of fish flung themselves up from the sea and onto our boats. There were so many that my father had to sell them at a loss, and afterward there was hardly a fish to be found in all of Blue Harbor for half the season.” She nodded towards the pitcher on the table that Eda had left behind the night before. “Sometimes, well water runs black. Animals die for no reason, or disappear altogether.” She folded her arms across her chest. “And then there was the day without dawn.”

Sheila blinked at her. “The day without...?”

Dasis nodded, solemnly. Her dark hair, bound today in a single thick braid, fell over her shoulder. “Just before the beginning of this last storm, for a full day, we lived in darkness. And there was not a cloud in the sky.”

Sheila lost all urge to laugh. There was a terrible sinking feeling in her gut and it had nothing to do with her injuries. Back on Earth, events such as these would have been considered odd flukes, outright lies or simple superstition that could eventually be explained away scientifically. Here, the situation was entirely different. Here, such bizarre events were significant and had a real, true cause, usually something far beyond the innocently explainable.

Just like the storms.

There must have been an odd expression on Sheila's face, because Dasis looked grimly pleased by it. “So,” she concluded. “Perhaps now you understand my fear.”

Sheila nodded slowly, feeling stunned. “I can,” she agreed quietly. “Yes.” Privately she wondered if the strange activities in Tarrow _did_ have something to do with her arrival, however unintentional or impossible it might seem. There was no way of knowing, of course. She couldn't completely explain, even to herself, how she'd gotten back here in the first place.

Taking a deep, cleansing breath, she looked Dasis square in the eye. “I have nothing to do with anything that's happened here,” she stated firmly, hoping it was true. “I am _not_ an evil sorceress. I have never been here before in my life, and I don't mean anyone, _anywhere_ , any harm.”

There was a long moment of silence as the two women studied each other, neither willing to look away. The fire snapped and hummed quietly between them, and from somewhere outside came the sound of hooves and wooden wagon wheels grating on stone, a man's voice raised in sudden laughter.

Finally, Dasis sighed, and the wariness on her face evaporated just a bit. “Well. I suppose we'll see,” she muttered. Then she got to her feet and motioned for Sheila to do the same. “Come. We'd best get going before the rain starts again.”

 

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

 

A tall stone wall rose before him, gray and almost menacing in the white, overcast light. The barest scent of the sea was in the air, a welcome addition to the constant smell of rain, and Arrow pricked his ears up at the first sound of gulls on the beach.

They had finally reached Tarrow, far earlier than expected, and Darian had imagined, after slogging through endless days of pounding rain and shrieking wind, that he would be a great deal more relieved at the sight of the place than he actually was.

But ... the rain had stopped.

Why?

The soldiers posted at the east gate waved him through with barely a second look, more concerned with sweeping the water and mud out of their guard tower while they had the chance. He frowned, but refrained from rebuking them. He was more than a little distracted himself by the weather's change, but for exactly the opposite reason.

Once through the gates Arrow automatically aimed them towards the stables, where he was unsaddled and left in the capable hands of one of the stable boys. Darian waited around long enough to make sure that his horse was properly cared for anyway, out of habit, before heading off in search of Solan. He needed to check in, for one thing, but mostly he needed to find out if Cam and the others had passed through, and if so, what word they might have left for him.

Solan was not in his quarters. Neither was Dasis, his wife. One of the servants sent him off in the direction of the armory, but Solan wasn't there either. Darian made the rounds of the entire outpost before coming to the conclusion that they both must have gone into town.

Damn.

He considered detouring off towards the kitchen and getting some food, something dry and fresh and recently cooked, but his conscience wouldn't allow it. He had to speak with Solan as soon as possible. The sooner the better, really, if he wanted to make use of this bizarre break in the storm. Something had happened, and he needed to find out what it was. His stomach was just going to have to wait.

Sighing, Darian shrugged his cloak around his shoulders and headed off into town on foot, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

 

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

  

Sheila followed Dasis into what looked like some sort of candle shop, trying to contain her impatience as the woman launched into yet another extended conversation with yet another storekeeper. Apparently she was arranging supplies for not only her own home but the entire garrison in general, and every time she bought anything it had to be in bulk, which required much figuring and discussion between she and the merchants. 

They had been wandering around Tarrow for nearly an hour and Sheila hadn't gotten very much out of the trip. When she admitted that she had no money with which to buy anything, Dasis had sighed heavily and offered to pay for whatever Sheila needed. From the tone of her voice Sheila could tell that this was another one of Eda's “suggestions” and had declined right away, after which she'd been relegated to the position of glorified pack mule, arms loaded with whatever small packages Dasis did not send along with the young serving boys who ran back and forth between wherever she happened to be and the fort itself.

Sheila felt sorry for them after a while; they weren't badly treated, but the town itself sat outside the fort, wrapped low around it and bordering on the sea, where a fairly busy-looking harbor had been established. Blue Harbor, she supposed. And the farther she and Dasis traveled, the farther up hill those poor boys had to run to get back.

As Dasis commiserated with the candle-shop owner's wife, an older woman who was complaining about damage that had been done to their roof during the storm, Sheila, ignored and forgotten, carefully set her armful of wares by the door and wandered back outside.

It was late afternoon, still cloudy and overcast. There were quite a few people about - now mostly townsfolk rather than soldiers, the true occupants of Tarrow - and all of them seemed to have had the same idea as Dasis: get as much of the day's business done as possible before it started pouring again. In a land without cars or umbrellas, Sheila supposed this made sense.

Personally, she wasn't convinced that the people here had anything to fear from more rain. But she refrained from saying so out loud, not wanting to arouse any more suspicions. Instead, trying to ignore the quiet sense of foreboding that was crawling up her back, Sheila turned her attention towards a small selection of wares that had been set up just outside the candle shop, attended by a hunched-over old man who was, even as he sat there, leaning on a walking stick.

Arranged across three brightly woven, rather threadbare carpets were several wooden cages made of sticks and branches, most containing small colorful birds that jumped about and sang brightly, even in the cold air. The little birds were beautiful and entirely part of _this_ world, with streaks of yellow and red on their wings and very long tails that actually curled at the ends. They were lovely to look at, but what had really attracted Sheila's attention was a small selection of jewelry laid out on a low table.

_Unicorns,_ she realized, drawing closer. Pendants, earrings, even a beautiful, intricately woven chain - all had been stylized in the likeness of a unicorn. Enchanted, she picked up one of the pendants for a closer look, struck suddenly by thoughts of Morning Star.

“Beautiful, yes?”

The old man was smiling at her when she looked up, revealing three missing teeth and a weathered face that was a mass of wrinkles and age spots. Sheila returned the gesture, despite herself.

“Yes, they are.”

“Just the sort of the thing for a lovely young woman,” he went on, winking at her myopically. “These come straight from the Capitol City itself, straight from Campora. They'll bring nothing but good luck to whoever wears them.”

Sheila nodded, still smiling, and carefully placed the pendant back on the table.

“You won't find work of this quality anywhere else in town,” the man went on, warming up to a possible buyer. “Nowhere else but in Campora itself. And why journey all that way when you can find the same thing here for half the price?”

Sheila frowned a little, feeling the fingers of a cold breeze snake beneath her borrowed cloak and dance along her shoulders. “How far is it from here to Campora?” she asked, pulling the thin material more tightly about herself.

The old man waved a hand, dismissing the idea entirely. “Too far. Days away, weeks.” He picked up the necklace and held it out to her. Not wanting to be rude, she took it from him. “Now look, look at that! Do you see how fine the chain is, how perfectly woven?”

“Yes, it's very beautiful.” Sheila was wondering if she should just admit that she had no money and get it over with when Dasis suddenly emerged from the candle shop.

“There you are.” She barely acknowledged the old man at all, sparing him only a quick glance before returning her attention to Sheila. “I'm finished here. We'd best head back before dark.” She cast an apprehensive glance at the sky before pulling her cowl back up over her head.

Sheila set the necklace back down on the table and gave the man a parting, slightly apologetic smile. To her surprise, he was frowning at her. “Are you all right?” he asked, squinting.

Sheila blinked. “I'm sorry?”

He motioned towards her right arm. “You've hurt yourself, I think.”

Startled, Sheila looked down. And gasped.

Her arm - the scar, the four poisonous welts that Mardock had left her with all those years ago - was bleeding.

  

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

 

Darian was nearing the end of his patience as he wandered down towards the harbor. Another street or two and he'd be walking in sand. If there was no sign of Solan at the docks he was giving up, finding himself some dinner at one of the local taverns, and heading back to his quarters. He couldn't waste any more time like this. It would probably be quicker and easier just to head back to Campora and get whatever news there was to be had in person.

Dodging a farmer's cart that was mostly full of children, Darian nearly collided with a street merchant selling apples at the roadside. This sudden, strange break in the weather had brought out every merchant and peasant in town and the rough cobblestone streets were crowded with people anxious to escape their own homes for a while.

Stepping wide to avoid a basket of soggy-looking fruit, he found himself briefly surrounded by a group of seven or eight teenaged girls who shrieked and then giggled at his back. Sighing, he pushed onward, keeping an eye out on both sides of the street for Solan's dark crimson tunic or _some_ sign of another soldier.

Instead, just outside of a candle shop, he saw Sheila.

Darian froze, certain that his eyes were deceiving him. Someone bumped into him from behind and he took only enough notice to step out of the way.

It couldn't be.

There was a young woman standing across the street, her back to him, with long hair the same color Sheila's had been, though how he could still remember it after all these years... He couldn't see her face but there was something about her, about the way she was standing, all it had taken was one glance and he knew-

Darian closed his eyes. _Stop it._

This had happened to him before, more times than he liked to admit. He would see a girl in a crowd, or a woman in the market, someone with long, russet-colored hair, and for just the briefest of moments he would think ... but no. He had always been mistaken. Always.

Sheila had been gone now for seven years straight, and he could no longer trust to hope for her return.

It's not her, Darian told himself firmly. It can't be.

And yet, just like every other time in the past seven years, he could not simply walk away. He couldn't leave now until he knew for certain. So he opened his eyes again and watched, feeling like a fool.

Unaware of his attention, the woman turned away from the shop just slightly, far enough for him to see that she was looking down at her right arm, the curtain of her hair obscuring her face. Another woman came up next to her and said something he couldn't hear. It took a moment for him to realize that this second woman was Solan's wife, tucked so thoroughly into a voluminous cloak that it might as well still have been raining. The first woman looked up at her, a clearly stricken, almost horrified expression on her face, and Darian felt his jaw drop.

It was.

It _was_ her.

Without conscious thought he found himself moving through the crowd, weaving his way through the bodies as quickly as possible without breaking into an outright run or pushing people out of the way. His heart was pounding so loudly that it was all he could hear, along with his breath, which rasped harshly in his ears.

Sheila. It was _Sheila_ standing there, holding her arm, dressed in a simple tunic and cloak as if she'd been living in Tarrow for years and he'd simply never noticed. He didn't bother pondering the hows and the whys; he only knew that he had to get to her, he had to reach her before she walked away or disappeared into a doorway somewhere and vanished again, nothing more than a figment of his imagination.

Darian was halfway across the street, pushing through a small herd of goats that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere just to get in his way, when he saw her stagger against a wall. Something very close to panic jumped through his veins and he called her name.

Both women looked up, but at first it was only Dasis who saw him. The confusion on her face was plain as she watched him shove his way through the last of the crowd and brush past her without even a single word in greeting.

“Sheila?” He touched her shoulder, breathless, half afraid that she might disappear again as soon as he did so.

But she didn't.

Her shoulder was as solid as the rest of her, she was really truly standing there, and when she turned to look up at him, Darian held his breath. Time slowed to a crawl as their eyes met. _Seven years,_ his brain shouted. Seven years and Sheila was back, he was touching her again...

For a long, tormenting moment, she didn't seem to recognize him. There was a sheen of pain on her face that she seemed have a hard time seeing through. Then her eyes widened and she actually went pale, still clutching at her arm. For the first time he noticed the blood there, staining her sleeve.

“Oh my god,” she gasped, staring up at him.

And then, to his utter shock, she was falling, sliding down the wall.

He caught her just before she hit the ground.


End file.
